


with brooding wings

by wearethewitches



Category: Young Dracula (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Bad Parenting, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, I Don't Even Know, Social Services, like morgana in merlin, like tbh that whole show was a ride, regarding ingrid at least, season one ingrid was just Hurt, she never even got her proper comeuppance in the end
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 11:58:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20291089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearethewitches/pseuds/wearethewitches
Summary: “Ingrid Count?”“Yes?"“My name is Annie Wheeler. I’m with Social Services.”-or, that bit from the kids-could-get-taken-away stuff from s1e2 goes a little further than they expected and i have no clue what i'm doing





	with brooding wings

**Author's Note:**

> it is surprisingly difficult to write a character without a first name. also i have no idea where this is going, except maybe therapy? tho that didn't work for ingrid in canon, all a deception, y'know - but maybe family therapy might work better bc then they don't get the chance to lie and deceive each other without catching the other out.
> 
> any ideas, pop 'em in the box. everything is welcome.

They come in the morning.

She’s so _ordinary_ and _mundane_ – dressed in a too-big pencil skirt and blouse, jacket looped over her arm. However, Ingrid wouldn’t have felt so uneasy had there not been a briefcase in her grasp and a stern-faced expression on her face. Behind the woman, a car idles in the driveway beside the hearse; inside, another woman waits, watching them with beady eyes behind the tinted glass.

“Ingrid Count?”

Whiplash – surprise. Ingrid blinks at her in confusion, reeling slightly. _How does she know my name? _“Yes? Who are you? What are you doing here?”

The woman nods in greeting. “My name is Annie Wheeler. I’m with Social Services. Can I ask who is in residence, at the moment?”

“My…my family?” Ingrid replies slowly, narrowing her eyes, conquering her instinct to cower in fear, a foreboding creeping up her back which she most steadfastly _ignores._ “Why do you want to know?”

Annie Wheeler barely blinks, eyes flicking up and down, taking in every movement Ingrid makes. “Your parents?”

“My dad. He sleeps in the daytime. He’ll be mad if you wake him up. It’s bad enough that Renfield takes us on the school run,” says Ingrid, slightly threatening, but forgetful – her expression loosening. Wary, she thinks of her father waking up early in the day, when he’s just gone to sleep.

The social worker watches on.

“You have a brother, I’m told. Vladimir?”

“Vlad’s probably already run off to his friend’s house.” Ingrid says, though she knows Vlad won’t have gotten out of bed yet. It’s to spite their father as much as it is a reaction to spending the day up and about, rather than the night, as they should.

“So only your father is in?” Wheeler suggests.

“There’s Renfield. He drives Dad around and keeps the castle how our father likes it. Why are you asking?”

“Ingrid, I need to enter the premises. If this…Mr Renfield could collect your father, he needs to be present for this discussion.”

“I’m not letting you in.” Ingrid raises her eyebrow.

Wheeler shakes her head, disagreeing. “That’s not up for debate. It’s either this, or I return with the police in tow.”

_The police._

Lips pressed together, Ingrid screeches for her dad, hearing him bellow through the castle to _shut up and let him sleep_. Ingrid doesn’t waste time, hand still holding the door open.

“There’s a woman here threatening me!”

“_I don’t care! Deal with her yourself and get Renfield to mop up the mess!_”

Ingrid chances a glance at Wheeler; the woman is frozen, a strange look to her eyes. A strange, wobbly feeling flits through her stomach, like bats in a cave. Ingrid raises her voice again.

“You need to come down – _now_, Dad! She wants _you_, not me!

A few moments later, he joins her at the door, head peering over her shoulder from the shadows. He glowers at the social worker, who’s expression goes flat.

“Who are you?” the Count hisses, “What do you want?”

“Annie Wheeler. Social Services. I’m here about your daughter, Ingrid.”

“What has she done, now?”

“_Nothing,_” Ingrid hisses, alarmed. She sends a heady glare at Wheeler, who looks her way.

“No, you’re right, you’ve done nothing. Rather, we got a report from Stokely Grammar that we’re obliged to follow up on. If you would invite me inside, we have a lot to talk about.”

“What is this…_Social Service?_ Checking up on Ingrid’s popularity, are we?”

“No,” Wheeler says, before stating something that turns Ingrid’s undead blood cold. “We’re here about your custody arrangement.”

* * *

The associate of Wheeler who sat in the car is a stronger, older woman with cropped brown hair and small, blue eyes. She looks ready for anything, unlike Wheeler – who introduces the other woman as _Barbara Forrest_ – and they both sit apart from each other. Somehow, Ingrid finds herself separated from her father and it’s…startling, to say the least.

She hadn’t realised how safe he felt, despite their animosity.

“The report from Stokely Grammar went something along the lines of this: you refused to put your children into school, up until your son translated a miscommunication over the consequences,” says Wheeler. She continues, however. “But, immediately prior to this, you made a genuine inquiry as to how your children, specifically Ingrid, could be taken away.”

“It was a…_joke_,” the Count excuses weakly – confusedly.

Forrest peers at Ingrid’s father dourly. “You were reported to be eccentric, with violent, archaic tendencies. This is the government following up.”

“We’ll be visiting your home, both scheduled and unannounced visits, to ensure you’re a suitable guardian for both Ingrid and Vladimir. I apologise if this is upsetting, but-”

“Upsetting?” Her father interrupts, looking absolutely murderous as he stands up, attempting to loom over her and utterly failing at even causing a crack in Wheeler’s façade. “They are _my_ children, to raise how _I _wish and how _I. See. Fit!_”

“What is their mother’s opinion on this?”

Freeze. Crack. Stare. Ingrid and the Count glance each other’s way, the Count about to open his mouth and speak before Ingrid gets in the way.

“She ran off with another man. Mum and Dad got divorced when she left him. It’s all very sad, isn’t it, Dad?” She smiles at him and her father’s glare is frosty as he points at her.

“Careful, Ingrid,” he growls, eyes flashing before he looks back to Wheeler. “Magda and I separated. The paperwork for our divorce is being processed. She gave up custody of both our children when she left.”

“Did she say as such?”

“She wrote a letter.” And Ingrid can hear how her father grinds his teeth, how he _hurts_ – and she loves it, for why shouldn’t he hurt? Mother left him because he was boring and useless. Oh, how Ingrid _despises _him – despises and hates him enough to cause trouble with these _breathers_ who dare threaten their family.

Ingrid draws in a breath, shoulders locked tight as she says: “I want to go live with Mum.”

Her father’s reply is instantaneous. “And I told you already that she’s not sui-”

“Mr Count,” Wheeler interrupts, hand rising. Restless, the Count stops. “If I might interrupt, Ingrid is a little older than her brother, closer to being an adult. She has the right to help make decisions about her own living situation.”

“Magda is _not_ a suitable parent – I don’t even know where she is,” the Count insists, waving his hands about before rubbing at his eyes, clearly exhausted. Ingrid looks away, both not wanting to hear this and _desperate_ to know: where is her mother? “Last time we talked – wrote – she was in Hungary. The time before that, she was in Russia. She travels. She isn’t _settled_. Now, I might be _eccentric_ according to your standards, but my children are mine and mine alone. We don’t need your _visits_ or your _opinions_.”

“You’re residents in this country, Mr Count. While you live here, you live here under our jurisdiction and laws. This isn’t something you can fight – and if you did, the Courts would most likely take both your children from your custody immediately, as it’s a sign you have something to hide.”

“We _do_ have something to hide – it’s called a _private family life._ Our family dates back centuries. Our traditions are not yours to judge or see,” he says and this is where Ingrid realises this is about their vampirism. _Damnit_, she thinks, sighing out loud.

“Fine,” she says, rolling her eyes and looking to the social workers. “Go away. You’re not needed. This is about me and Vlad, right? Well, I don’t want you here and Vlad, as much as he dislikes our century-old traditions and lifestyle, will definitely oppose to being taken away.”

“Ingrid,” Wheeler says, meeting her eyes. “This isn’t something you can make go away with a few simple words. The report has been made. The paperwork is already done. When we leave, today, it’s not to get back to the office and say everything’s fine – this is Social Services informing your father of a plan that is already in place. You’re house and family are being inspected, to make sure you – and your brother – are getting the love and care you deserve.”

“But we’re _fine_,” Ingrid replies, eyebrows knitting together.

Wheeler leans over, hand coming to rest on her knee. “If that’s true, then we’ll disappear from your life before Christmas. If things are perfect and there’s nothing to worry about, we’ll leave you all be.” She gives a tiny, forced smile that Ingrid feels reflects her soul, before saying, “But we’ll see how it goes, okay? Don’t you worry about a thing.”

“I won’t,” says Ingrid.

It sounds hollow.

* * *

“What did you _do?_” He hisses in her face, after they leave and she’s up against a wall, heart pounding in her ears. “Ingrid Lucinda Dracula…”

“Didn’t you hear them?” She can’t help but bitch at him, “It’s what you said to the headmistress, when you didn’t put us to school!”

He snarls, dark hair so like Ingrid’s own whipping about as he starts to pace. “Vlad could get taken away!” He hisses and Ingrid sucks in a breath that feels like fire. Is there a dragon in her bloodline, she wonders – because it certainly feels like it, with all the anger billowing through her chest.

“Oh, _Vlad_ could get taken away!” She yells, “And what about me? Would you even care, Dad?”

“Of course not,” he scoffs, dismissing her. “Vladdie’s the important one.”

“Why do you say that?” Ingrid screams. “It’s not fair! _I’m_ your firstborn – _I’m your daughter!_”

“And what of it?” He finally yells back, twisting to face her. “Sons and daughters are not equal!”

“It shouldn’t even matter! I’m your _child_, I should be _important_ to you.”

“But you _aren’t_, Ingrid and you never will be. Vladimir is-”

“Vlad is Vlad, the important one, your favourite – I know,” Ingrid says, on the brink of tears, her anger transformed into hurt and pain. “You say it all the time.”

“Because it’s true.”

“I don’t care if it’s true or not, I just want you to say that you _care_, Dad.”

He stalks forwards, leaning down, _looming_ again. His face comes to her level. There’s a long moment where Ingrid thinks- no, she _knows_ what he’s going to say. He’ll say _I don’t care about you, Ingrid_ or _You’re not important enough to care for._ Ingrid knows. Her hope is always there, always a spark in her chest that he might say he loves her or that he does care, _anything_. She’s tried to stamp it out, but it’s never worked, even knowing that he’ll never manage to actually light a bonfire festering with relief and that dratted _finally._

What he does say surprises her.

“Why do you want to go to your mother?” He asks, voice so awfully quiet, little more than a murmur. “Your mother was negligent and cruel. She used you as an ornament at parties – as a trophy. She left you behind when she ran off with that werewolf. When you were small and toddled about, I was the one there to watch, because she was too busy travelling the world and making friends in high places, using my name as her ladder there.”

“She loves me,” Ingrid’s voice quavers. “You don’t.”

“If your mother loves you, then you’re my favourite,” he says, voice cold as he straightens, shoulders back and head held high. “I’m surprised she ever connected with Vladimir at all – but he’s my heir. You aren’t.”

“Is that all that matters to you?” Ingrid asks, dully. “The heirship? You don’t care that _I _could be Countess Dracula or that _I_ could make you proud?”

“How would you make me proud?”

“I don’t know – you tell me. You’re always telling _Vlad._”

Ingrid looks at the stone floor, how the dust coats the surface well enough that she can see all their footprints. Her father’s cape droops across it, collecting mothballs and dirt like an ancient vampire’s cape should. How is it that he can be the picturesque vampire, while having Vlad for a son? Vlad is his shame, in truth. Ingrid could be so great, if the Count only treated her the same.

“…you have school. And I need to sleep,” he says quietly. “And Ingrid?”

Her head shoots up, her eyes bright and almost – _almost_ – unwary. “Yeah?”

He leans.

“Never ask to go to your mother again.”


End file.
